


2559: A Space Odessey

by docs_pupil



Category: Stars Without Number
Genre: Games, Gen, RPG, Role-Playing Game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8510554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docs_pupil/pseuds/docs_pupil
Summary: A few-odd buttons light up on the shuttle's navigation computer as it pulls into view of the station.  Well, there she is.  Not the shabbiest piece of junk in this sector by a long shot, that's for sure.  This is the place, then.  You were told that all you had to do was sit through a timeshare presentation, get their shitty pamphlets, and "bam!" your own fully-crewed, top-of-the-line, no-down-payment shuttle.  Or, at least, that's what the holo-message told you.  The airlock hisses open as the ship locks into place with one of the station's external ports, the passengers on the vessel standing up and eagerly beginning to make their way to the door.  There's no way this day could possibly get better, right?





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction is based off of a currently running role-playing game hosted weekly. Much of it is torn from the actual game play and does reflect it as accurately as possible, with a few artistic liberties thrown in. Special thanks goes out to the Game Master who started it all, as well as the other players who find time in their busy schedules to play.

Space Station 13, Today

As the large shuttle glides into dock at the western port of Space Station Thirteen, the docking ports along both sides of the outer hull hiss loudly as they depressurize their inner locks. The vacuum tubes attach to the outside of shuttle with a heavy “ker-thunk”, hissing in response to the automated Gravity Equilibrium System. The murmuring crowd imperceptibly shifts in response to the subtle change of gravities as they funnel through the packed tubes into the station.

Amongst the mixed populous heading out into the large entrance foyer, three humans, a Tajaran, and an Unathi double check the advertisements in their hands as they look about the bustling surroundings.

“Come to Conference Center four,” the station’s larger holographic version of it chimes merrily from its glass panel on the far side of the auditorium over the loud goings-on.

Conference Center number four? None of the particularly interested travelers have any idea where that room, or any room in particular for that matter, is on this large station. They cross the polished grey tiles, following the crowd to what looks like a high security way point ahead.

A human in a dark, immaculately tailored suit gives himself a once-over, adjusting his tie. His emerald green eyes flick over the minute details about his attire, revealing insignificant pieces of lint which he dusts off his shoulders with a nonchalant swipe.

A somewhat antsy young lady in an old, dirt-specked light blue jumpsuit not too far behind him watches him adjust his cuff links, seeing a very notable gold band on his left hand. He runs a hand over his neat, slicked back locks in the reflection of a stainless steel disposal bin, revealing to her many nearly healed scars on his brow and cheek.

The man looks around as the crowd moves slowly forward. “A good number of people headed to the conference room,” he thinks, watching a gathering around the farther advertisement dissipate after it concludes.

She pushes her rolled-up sleeves higher above her bony elbows, then goes up to the farther left of the four security checkpoints to ask where Conference Center Four is.

The heavily armored soldier checking documentation waves along the human in front of her before giving her his attention. He keeps his free hand on his carbine rifle, holding out his gloved hand. “Papers.”

A curious Tajaran behind the man line-jumped watches the sudden drama unfold.

The human she cut in front of takes a deliberately large step back from the unhappy and heavily armed man as a frown crosses his once neutral face.

“But–”

"Papers, please,” the man insists, apparently not happy about the backup forming behind her.

The anxious young woman reaches into her left leg jumper pocket and pulls out a carefully folded official document, handing it to him.

The suited man sees the exchange, and double checks his belongings, producing his own paperwork he'd received shortly after replying to the holo-message, and squeezes into the gap in line.

The soldier roughly unfolds the documents, quickly scanning the information.

The taller human already in line steps behind the other to close off any more line jumpers while patting down his leather coat.

“Renet Darden?”

She nods yes.

He hands it back. "You're clear.” He points with the muzzle of his carbine at the brushed steel door frame next to himself. “Through the scanner. Put any weapons or electronic equipment on the conveyor."

The girl distractedly steps through the scanner muttering curse words under her breath as she puts away her passport document. As she steps through the scanner, an alarm begins to blare. Her hand brushes the holsterless revolver strapped to her left thigh and she curses under her breath again.

The guard turns around, pointing at the nearest wall. "Ma'am, against the wall, please. Hands clearly visible."

A few people in the crowd groan.

The tall man cringes before sighing. “Always someone.”

The suit and tie's eyebrows raise in minor disbelief.

Renet Darden walks over to the nearest wall and places her hands on it far apart. She hears the sound of the guard's radio click on and fidgets nervously as they converse back and forth for a minute.

The Tajaran looks over to man in front of him. "Of course. This may be a while, you have a smoke?"

The human half turns toward the waiting alien behind him. “No I don't. Sorry.”

"Code two-three-nine. Compliant. Dealing with it." He pats her down in a practiced motion. "Ma'am, are you carrying any electronics or weapons on you?"

“A few.”

"Ma'am, please slowly remove your items from your person and place them on the floor. Slowly."

She sighs heavily, removing her compad and weapon from her jumpsuit and placing them side by side on the grey tile floor.

The suited man eyes the weapon carefully as it's lowered to the floor, then nods curtly as it reaches the ground without incident.

The guard slowly picks up the items, carbine still trained on her back. "Ma'am, I'm going to need you to step into a separate line. Your items will be returned to you after you're through checking. Understood?"

Renet Darden curses under her breath, thinking she might already be late for the conference meeting. “Fine.”

The Tajaran male rapidly taps his foot out of mounting frustration.

The human behind her takes this as a sign the line is in motion again, and takes a step forward. He gives a nod to the guard.

The next human moves up a space, paperwork in hand.

A few more people shuffle through the line. The guard asks the man for his papers.

He produces the documents quick and efficiently, staring a bit too absently at the guard's insignia. He levels his eyes with the man's again as he hears his name called.

“Mister Graves?”

The human curtly nods an affirmative.

The soldier repeats his previous orders.

Mister Graves slips the strap of his Plasma Projector over his head then sets it in the white, plastic bin with a heavy “THUNK”. He does the same with his chain sword and a couple of energy cells before he steps through.

The man in the leather coat stares at the weapons for a moment then looks at the back of their owner’s head with a frown.

The young lady is released from temporary custody to reclaim her electronics and revolver.

A guard behind the first directs her with short, almost annoyed, commands. "...Items in the conveyor, then through the scanner, Ma’am. Next."

Renet curses her absent-mindedness collecting her things while asking where Conference Center Four is.

The next human steps up to the guard, handing him his paperwork.

“Dhal Vollen?”

“Yes,” the man answers keeping his neutral expression.

The security guard waves his through repeating himself for the umpteenth time. “Through the scanner and retrieve your equipment. Next."

The man called Graves retrieves his weapons and equipment. Checking his watch, he heads off in the direction of the conference center, pushing past the girl.

She hesitates on tapping the sentry on the armored shoulder, instead resorting to slightly raising her voice of the raucous. “Guard Sir?”

Dhal Vollen lays out his Laser Pistol and Bio-scanner, stepping through the checkpoint without incident.

The cat-like extraterrestrial smiles at the comparatively small, but technologically superior armaments laid down before him. "Nice toys."

She hops in her brown, ankle-high boots nervously waiting for a response. “Guard?!” The young lady finally walks away, seeing they've elected to ignore her.

"Next."

Another person to cut in line shuffles through.

The man ignores him, collecting his things before turning to the guard. “By any chance do you know where Conference Room four is?”

The guard absentmindedly replies while reading, "Yeah, to your right through the gate."

“Thank you.” He heads off in the direction the guard indicated.

At the junction of two hallways, Mister Graves notices Renet wandering aimlessly, reading and re-reading the directional signs just above eye level. “If you're aiming for the Conference Center Miss, it's this way.” He points down the right hall. “If you'll allow, I could escort you.”

Renet Darden nods an affirmative as he does an about face to resume his walk toward the center.

“Garen...Jur Kazam?” He stares back and forth between the document and the owner.

Garen Jur'Kazaam nods with a smile. "G'Day, Sir."

The guard re-scans the papers carefully, looking up at him occasionally, eyes unflinching in their intensity.

He waits calmly, smiling. "Funny kind of day, is it?"

He finally makes his judgment as the minute passes. "Congratulations, you've been selected for a random security screening. Step into the alternate line.” He places his other hand on his carbine. “Don't try anything funny."

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles, keeping his smile intact. "No worries, boss," he affirms as he’s whisked away to an alternate line.

"Next."

A lizard-like alien moves up in line, giving security a dry look, and staying completely silent.

"Papers," the guard says without holding out his hand.

He flicks the appropriate papers out of his vest pocket and sets them on the rim of the conveyor.

The guard skims the information. “Vash...Seekus?”

Vaash Siekus blinks, staring at him.

"Random Security Selection. Move." The guard gestures with his carbine to the alternate line.

He breathes out gruffly and obliges, collecting his document. "Random."

Garen Jur'Kazaam realizes from observing the other lines parallel to his, that the random check was in fact not actually random. He keeps a tight smile, holding back a bit of anger as he collects his Laser Pistol from the weapon bin. He follows the trail of the leather-clad man who had asked directions to conference center four ahead of him.

Vaash Siekus gives the human guard the stink-eye as he’s patted down, but elects to remain calm and 'kind', to keep things moving. The alien man keeps silent and to himself, following some of the movement of the crowd toward what he thinks is the appropriate direction based on semi-logical reasoning.

By their own means the travelers find themselves at the entrance to the conference center. Unsurprisingly, very few have found either the time or desperation to attend a timeshare sell, even in such a crowded station. A sickly looking Skrell slowly works at setting up the projector on the stage of the gymnasium-sized room as a greasy-haired human man wearing a cheap-looking suit takes his place in front of a holo-screen that dominates the far front wall of the room.

The man turns to each of them in turn as they enter, an immensely artificial smile on his face. "Friends! Welcome, welcome! Take a seat, please, I don't want to waste any of your valuable time!”

The Skrell coughs at the overly-practiced happiness.


	2. Chapter 2

“Here we are.” Mister Graves stands at the entrance of the auditorium, scoping out the large room out of habit. He waits patiently to be seated, adjusting the leather strap of his chain sword.

The young lady immediately takes the seat in the farthest right of the last row, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

The man named Dhal Vollen glances at the other two already arrived, smiling wanly at them out of common courtesy. After being ignored by the young lady, and receiving an unnervingly plastic smile from the suited man, he decides on the end left seat in the front row, staring up at the bored Skrell impatiently.

Garen Jur’Kazaam enters next, taking to the nearest back wall and leaning his shoulder against the upright surface. He sizes up the occupants silently and deliberately labeling each in turn as an “asset” or a “mark”. He meets Graves’s intense stare for only a moment, but even when their eyes leave one another, the human’s peripherals always seem to be watching the young cat.

Vaash Siekus comes in last, plopping onto the middle seat of the middle row of the right hand side.

“That’s new,” the taken-aback Tarajan thinks to himself as the lizard man strolls by.

The sluggish, brawny Unathi folds his arms, breathing out heavily as he tilts his head to one side, resting it on his shoulder. He flicks his tongue in and out a few times as a dull look glazes over his tired eyes.

The greasy-haired man waits for a few more minutes, checking the time on his old-style wristwatch/calculator after a spell. "Is this everyone?” He invites everyone to find a seat before doing a quick head count, mouthing the numbers with a frown. “One, two, three, four, five…" The gentleman counts again, finding no error in his math."Hrm...we appear to be missing one. Well what a shame,” the man enthuses through his cheesy smile. “He missed out on a once in a lifetime opportunity."

“He...?” Vollen quirks an eyebrow more out of his natural incredulity at the additional consideration by another than anything else.

Renet hums to herself quietly, taking in the grand surroundings of the station’s auditorium hall.

From the second to last left back row, Mister Graves’s eyes glaze over immediately, betraying just how intently he’s listening to all the faked enthusiasm.

"Now then, my good friends, you all are here for a reason, right? You're looking for a job, good income, adventure, and most importantly, a quick profit, am I right?"

Mr. Graves is the only one to answer the rhetorical question. “Correct.”

“We wouldn’t be here otherwise if we didn't,” Vollen mumbles to himself.

The man clasps his hands. "Well, then, I'll let my associate here begin the presentation and I'll let you ask any questions you want. After that, You're right on your way to your FREE freighter!" His overly enthused smile doesn’t fade for second as the presentation is begun with a nod of his head.

The Skrell nods weakly, pressing a few buttons on the small, portable projector as the holoscreen lights up with a slick looking logo "NanoTrasen Expeditionary Corps".

Vaash Siekus brings himself upright in his hard plastic chair, wiping away the drool threatening to drip from the side of his mouth. He lays his cheek on his open hand dozing off to sleep again.

Dhal Vollen sits there and watches the melodic introduction with crossed arms and a slight frown wondering what their stake in this promotion is.

“Oh fuck,” Jur’Kazaam intones, irritated and angry. “Not these guys.” He stares straight ahead, hoping nobody heard.

A serene, feminine voice over begins to play. "Valued citizens of the galactic community. For the past few hundred years, NanoTrasen has been the pioneer in many of the most difficult fields know to modern science without showing any signs of slowing. Always striving to meet the evolving needs of all terrestrials, NanoTrasen offers a range of products and services for a market spanning much of the known galaxy…"

Mr. Graves notices Vaash's proximity to himself for the first time. Despite his recent experiences, being only a few chairs away doesn't seem to disturb the man in any way, which is a curiosity in and of itself.

"But, we didn't come this far from just ingenuity alone. When it comes down to it, NanoTrasen is made up of hundreds of workers from all walks of life on all planets…"

Having heard the same prattle from another presentation a few solar days ago, Vaash Siekus is fairly trained on the presentation and none too distracted from his dozing.

"Because of you, the customer, NanoTransen is launching a new initiative to offer our valued customers and citizens even more choice when it comes to products, services, and the home: ‘The NanoTrasen Expeditionary Corps’.”

At hearing the word “expedition”, Renet Darden looks over the others in the grey walled auditorium carefully and stealthily, unsure of the people around her.

"The goal of this group is to venture forth into the far reaches of our known galaxy, and discover exotic locales ripe with beauty and riches beyond your dreams. Members are free to make their own decisions regarding day to day operations and navigation, only reporting to a NanoTrasen representative on what and where they find resources and important worlds. In return you will receive compensation for your invaluable service."

With his hawk-like eyes, Mister Graves notices the surreptitious glances from Garen as he surveys the room once more. The Tajaran’s quick sizing up is stopped cold by the suited man’s intense, albeit short stare.

The cat-like terrestrial quickly glues his look to the screen, acting as nonchalant as possible.

Dhal Vollen takes no notice of any of the byplay as he scrutinizes the presentation word for word.

"Benefits of the program include NanoTrasen stock for all participants, a robust healthcare plan, and insurance for your next of kin in the rare, rare event of a tragedy."

Siekus droops his eyes, battling them to be open occasionally.

Renet Darden quickly looks away from the silent fight of wills between the Tajaran and Human, watching the presentation halfheartedly. She questions whether traveling across the stars in this manner is any safer than being a stowaway.

“All of NanoTransen welcomes you aboard, and we hope to see you with us in the corps soon. Remember to ‘boldly go where no one has marketed before’.”

Garen Jur'Kazaam scoffs at the offbeat motto at the end of the presentation. “Another pyramid scheme?”

Mister Graves seems to have gotten one of those last lines stuck in his head. "…With us in the corps soon…in the corps soon…" He jars slightly.

The lights in the room are automatically brought back up as the sales rep takes his place back at the front of the room. “So, Friends, any questions? I bet you're all excited to go!"

“Thrilled,” the Tajaran sarcastically rebuts.

Renet shakes her head no, smiling.

The Unathi twitches a bit, straightening his back and blinking at the sudden raise in the lighting. He rubs his eyes, managing to stay awake this time.

Dhal Vollen clears his throat loudly, asking the obvious question first. “What kind of compensation are we looking at?”

Graves straightens up promptly, forcing the running thought out of his conscience. “Excellent question. What exactly is owed to NanoTrasen?”

“Oh just the usual. Our lives, our first born, and whatever is left of our soul,” the one called Garen snarks from the back of the room laughing sheepishly with a half smile on his lips.

The young woman laughs quietly in the background.

The man chuckles smoothly. “We always get that question, you know. Short answer, it depends on the planet you discover. Completely chart a resource rich planet? You're looking at a few hundred thousand credits. Each,” he adds with a smile.

Dhal gives an incredulous “Ah” at this answer.

“Always a slave, even out here in the stars,” Garen thinks out loud more to himself than anyone else. 

Mr. Graves offers a wry, knowing smile Garen's way.

The leather-clad human glances at the Tajaran smiling a little at that statement.

"As for what you'll owe to NanoTrasen, think of it as just the obligation to report back any planets you find. Unless you plan on colonizing them yourself, mind!" The man laughs a little at his own unfunny joke.

Most of the occupants find his joke unfunny and don’t bother to humor him in the slightest.

Mr. Graves: “So that we understand each other completely, who are we to contact regarding said homage to NanoTrasen? Are we to be assigned a representative of some kind?”

“Is it Bob,” Vollen chimes in. “I've heard good things.”

The woman hides her laugh in her hands.

The man nods. “That's correct, you'll be assigned a representative acting on our behalf. I'm one of them myself, you know, and I can testify to their ethic.”

Mr. Graves arches an eyebrow a third time today. An unprecedented feat for one so controlled.

Garen Jur'Kazaam smirks, jerking his clawed thumb in the direction of the raised stage. “I like this guy.”

"There is also one small thing before you’re sent on your way" the man says, smiling as brightly as ever.

“Here it comes.” The man in the front row adjusts his glasses, sitting straighter in his seat.

Mr. Graves eyes narrow only slightly.

“Here we go,” Garen tells the room from the back. “Always a catch with you NT suits. Ha ha, suits…” He looks over at Graves in his attire.

Renet Darden huffs dipping lower in her uncomfortable chair.

"Naturally, NanoTrasen can't afford to give a ship to every individual out there who sits through a timeshare, you see, so you all were invited to crew one of the Corps's smaller patrol vessels.” He throws his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “I realize it's a very big commitment, but we assure you that everyone in this room has been extensively vetted, whether or not they realize it and whether or not they tried to hide something. We're very thorough when it comes to customer safety." The man winks at no one in particular. "Needless to say, we make sure that each expeditionary unit has a unique selection of skills to maximize efficiency and productivity in the field."

Dhal Vollen cringes almost imperceptibly, unnecessarily straightening up in his seat once more.

Vaash gives him a suspicious look, but remains as still and calm as a cucumber.

Graves's face hardens. “Of course.”

Darden nervously fidgets, leaning forward in her seat as she straightens up.

Jur'Kazaam smiles nervously to himself. “I wonder if they know EVERYTHING.”

He chuckles through that wide smile in an attempt to cut through the tension in the room. “Why so serious friends? This isn't blackmail. As I said, we value our customer's privacy, employees on the other hand…" his voice trails off before anymore can be said.

“It's important to maintain security,” Mister Graves points out amiably.

Dhal chooses his words carefully so as not to offend. “Of course you value privacy…it was merely the word choice.”

The presenter fakes as much sympathy as possible to diffuse the tension. “We understand completely.”

“So, to be clear, you'll give us a ship as long as we do what you say,” Garen wonders as he crosses toward the raised stage. “I guess things could be worse. What's your name, anyway?”

The man continues smiling. "Well, of course! We just need you to sign a few legal documents, and the ship and the badge are yours! And, as for my name, It's George, George Mellon."

“Mellon? Really?” The name strikes a familiar chord with the man in the leather jacket.

The cat terrestrial hops up next to presenter Mellon, placing a friendly paw on his shoulder. “Mr. Mellon, I'm sure you were a popular kid…”

While the Tajaran runs at the mouth, Vaash Siekus leans his head against his hand and closes his eyes.

Having never seen an Unathi, let alone one asleep, Renet Darden moves to the row behind him and watches Vaash slumbering peacefully.

Out of courtesy, Vollen impatiently looks about the auditorium waiting for the young cat to finish. His eyes fall on the pair sitting near the front right. He wonders if the Unathi is actually asleep.

Mr. Graves frowns at the odd group momentarily before catching it and reforming to a neutral expression. “Let's look over those documents then.” Mister Graves walks up on stage and extends a hand to Associate Mellon.

Mellon takes the hand and shakes it vigorously. “If you ever meet my brother while you're out there trailblazing, tell him I said hi, eh? His name's Griff. Now,” The man crosses over to a white plastic fold-out table a few feet away, grabbing an old-fashioned leather briefcase. “Onto the legalese.”

Mr. Graves only nods.


End file.
